


The Formation of a Song

by islasands



Series: The Diary of an Incomplete Bastard [4]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:51:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A page in The Diary of an Incomplete Bastard, which may or may not hint at the intense artlessness of creativity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Formation of a Song

Tuesday Some month Some year

The infinite sigh...

Friday Apparently

If there is such a thing as a stream of consciousness then mine is running like vinegar on stones. It's a dark sunset coloured water that makes white stones look luminous. And it never broadens sufficiently to allow fish to fatten though I do believe some freshwater crustaceans hold on for dear life to the base of my rocks and I'm also pretty sure I've felt the odd eel slithering down my rapids. But all up my stream of consciousness is simply that, a stream.  In other words, I am not 'deep'. Yet this is the most common error people make when appraising my character. They think I'm a thinker and I'm not. They think I'm sensitive or intuitive and I'm not. They think my work, my 'art', reveals what manner of man I am and nothing could be further from the truth. 

I'm a hitch-hiker. My journey, - which after all is naturally downhill, dictates my ride. If the terrain is steep I run as though trying to escape from something, if it's a gentle slope I dance as though I haven't a care in the world, if it levels out I take pause but not for thought, not for reflection. No, I take it for gathering strength. Unintentionally, mind. I have no idea at any given moment where exactly in the scheme of things, such as my life for fuck's sake, I am at! 

Yes, I am that shallow. 

I see no sense in doing or being otherwise. 

Does this mean I am without a plan? Not at all. I make my bed and I run over it, never once stopping to examine its stones. I am shallow but I'm not stupid.

Saturday

There is something about loving a person that makes me feel uneasy, like a colt suddenly finding itself captive in a corral. I am not talking about commitment shit. I am talking about a particular form of cognitive dissonance that relationships deny. It's the matchless splendour of being alone and wishing you weren't. 

Makes perfect sense to me. Why else are mountains so impressive? Or the sea so incomparably lonely? It's because heights and depths are the natural poetry of life. 

Which isn't to say I'm any different to other people. I also strain towards finding the valleys or plains where you can settle down and build a life, a relationship, which you then set about furnishing with the kind of proofs that show love's gains, - the house, the furniture, the garden, the offspring. I want those things too, but only as an aside. I want them for a while so that I too have somewhere to go that I call home. 

But then I want it to rain hard on the tin roof of a bivouac at the top of a mountain pass. I want to hear the boulders running. I want to wake up in a sleeping bag and watch mice gnawing at a slab of butter. Which is by way of saying I want to go shopping and fucking, not necessarily in that order. Hah! 

Thursday

I am so full of shit I think I might beat the Guinness world record for the biggest shit ever, which I believe is a 45 kilogram effort removed from a man who died after failing to evacuate his bowels for half a century.

The thing is, I want to be more interesting than I am. I look at my face in the mirror and search my eyes for a glimmer of something new and fascinating, like a new species of frog, for example, and there is nothing! 

I want to be in the arms of someone who can pin me onto himself like a helpless jewel. Pinned by means of a clasp so intricately designed I couldn't extricate myself even if I wanted to. 

And I want the notion of supper to be removed from my expressionistic singing. I want to make music the exact same way that the sea turns white when it thrashes itself against rocks! Breaking over the obstacle of a shore. That's pretty simple and direct, don't you think? 

God I love fucking when it's like that. On a whim of inevitability. A shock of possession. Spontaneous rutting, especially when rival males are jealously eyeing the prize. 

I miss my former love, from years ago, from so long ago that the memory of him has generalised into a fragrance, such as the smell of imminent rain. I miss him a lot. His touch was like mist that lies on top of an estuary. He lay on me that way and kept me hidden from the eyes of the world. I was like a permanently fogged up mirror that he drew pictures on, signed his name upon, made squiggly marks all over that I couldn't comprehend. I miss him. I miss fucking the impertinent strength of his body that was at once compassionate and snarkily sardonic, a combo I have never since encountered in any other man. I could freely long to injure him, sexually, without getting into trouble. 

Round and around and around and around we go...

I want to be happy, but the only time I feel content is when I am working. 

Friday again

An artist friend of mine once gave me a painting as a token of thanks for some service I had rendered. It was not until years later that I realised the painting was most likely a reject. i.e. one he would never sell. It was called "Unconscious man" but he had misspelled the word unconscious. I thought back over my own part in the exchange and had to laugh, for I had done him a kindness purely to obtain access to his inner being. You know, I quite understand why aliens are hell bent with probing the excretory organs of humans. They're orifice obsessed because they're a species that never developed mouths, nostrils, fingers, tongues or dicks.  They never needed to. They are blobs of intellect who mastered space flight simply by thinking about it, hence they have no idea what it's like to exude or intrude. Poor bastards. They come here to our planet and see our tireless preoccupation with sticking things into our various holes and want to know why. 

I could explain it to them if they would let me poke around in them for a bit. 

Monday

I met someone I like. Trouble is he reminds me of someone I love. That could be interesting in a devastating way. 

Oh my dear fucking diary, why do I bother? The sun is out. I can feel the birth of a zillion new freckles rejoicing in that fact. I have the best friends in the world. They look me over fondly as though wondering how long I will keep searching for something that isn't lost. They act as though I am loveable because of rather than despite my many failings. That's pretty fucking good isn't it. 

Yeah. It's pretty fucking good! In fact, I feel a lyric coming on, a new song about not needing small talk about the pointless point of origins to remind me I am a primate with time on my hands. I want to grasp his hip bones, pull him onto me, and run my tongue up and down the keys of his spine. I want to fornicate under an umbrella of gigantic leaves while drums are running up a massive soundcloud debt and my teeth are aching over the secret softness of his belly flesh. 

This new man makes me laugh because he is so blatantly vain. I think even his sleep is posed! He wears his personality as though it is a fur coat made from the pelt of an endangered species and he doesn't give a fuck. 

I would like to fuck him into tomorrow and then take him out for lunch. 

Such is my read all about it extra, extra, extra, ordinary life! 

Another Damn Dame Monday

Where is the love of my life and why isn't he cooking my dinner? 


End file.
